I was the only one
by FFabeonG
Summary: "No-one else could get him to do anything when he was in a mood like that..." John's annoyance after a period of Sherlock's sulking causes the consulting detective to take a trip down memory lane and recall those times when he had been needed to raise someone else from the pits of despair...


**cOnly one who could pull him back**

"John, when's dinner?" Sherlock stumbled through the door from his bedroom into the sitting room, clad in only his dressing gown.

"Finally snapped out of your sulk, have you?" John looked up from his laptop and scowled at the detective. Sherlock frowned.

"How long was it? I lost count."

"About eight hours of straight dark depression." John replied grumpily "And rudeness." He added.

"Oh." Sherlock rubbed his eyes and yawned. "Not that long then."

"Not that long?!" John glanced up again from his blog, eyebrows raised "I think eight hours is a bloody long time, Sherlock!"

"Really, if you think that little mood swing was long, you should've seen me when I was fourteen or something like that!" Sherlock padded over to the fridge and rummaged around for food, moving the various body parts out of the way. Then he paused, and said, "Come to think of it, you should have seen Mycroft at that age! He was worse."

"Sherlock, for some reason I find it hard to imagine Mycroft throwing a strop and lying on his bed in a tantrum." John's eyebrows went up further.

"That's because you never saw it!" Sherlock came to sit on the sofa opposite John and stretched out like a cat. "He does so much work nowadays that it never happens. But the school holidays...h*ll for us both, but he would always get depressed more easily than me." The consulting detective looked over at John, who had returned to blogging. "Still don't believe me?" he questioned.

"Well give me an example then." John said absent-mindedly.

"All right." Sherlock closed his eyes and put his hands together, searching his memory. "Christmas holidays. I was...seven, I must have been seven, Mycroft was fourteen..."

"_Sherlock! Supper's ready!" Mrs Holmes called. Seven-year-old Sherlock came into the kitchen from the garden where he had been playing with Redbeard and glanced about._

"_Where's My?" he asked.  
"Still up in his room, in one of his moods." Mrs Holmes sighed, a hint of annoyance to her tone. "If you want to try and get him down, be my guest, but don't waste time."_

"_Ok." Sherlock vanished from the kitchen doorway and headed up the stairs, listening as he went. There was no sound coming from the door with its occupant's name scribbled on in indelible marker (thanks to a much younger Sherlock), and Sherlock could tell it hadn't been opened all day. He reached and pulled the handle, creeping in and then shutting the door behind him, unsurprised to see his older brother lying on his back on his high-up bed, staring at the ceiling with a listless expression on his face. Anyone who knew Mycroft in later life might have failed to recognise him at first, because it was only when he was in his late twenties that he had suddenly gained the weight that many people remembered him by and his brother would tease him for. But at the age of fourteen, Mycroft was rail-thin, baring much more of a resemblance to Sherlock even with his lighter, but uncut, hair. Sherlock shook his head in some amazement. Even though he hadn't left the room at all, Mycroft had still gotten dressed in his impeccably neat clothes and brushed his hair, something he always seemed to do without fail, even if he was in a dark mood that most of the family avoided him for. Except "most" didn't include Sherlock. "Mymy, what're you doing?"_

"_Go away Sherlock." Mycroft murmured, not moving at all. Sherlock paused, looking around._

"_You could always try reading through the whole history papers rather than just the first chapter." He suggested, picking up on the ruffled papers on the desk, but his brother just replied,_

"_Done."_

"_Oh yes." Sherlock frowned, now noting how the slight dust layer on the desk had been disturbed around the whole booklet, not just the first chapter. He paused again, looking round and finally fixing his gaze on a nearby open book. "Maybe it wasn't poison, though?" he questioned, correctly assuming his brother had been trying to occupy himself with a national murder that had stumped the police. "What if the dart just hit a crucial nerve? That's a clever idea, isn't it?"_

"_Don't be smart Sherlock, I'm the smart one." Mycroft snapped, still not even looking at Sherlock. But Sherlock grinned, knowing he was getting somewhere. This was the best response Mycroft had probably given all day, and now Sherlock played his next move. Coming over to his brother's bed (which was very high), the younger Holmes scrambled up next to Mycroft and sat on the edge, crossed-legged. "Shut up."_

"_I didn't say anything." Sherlock retorted._

"_You think too loud." Mycroft's blank face creased slightly as he nearly frowned. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, a smile twitching on his mouth._

"_Mummy says dinner is ready." He said._

"_I don't care."_

"_You have to eat, Mymy."_

"_No I don't."_

_The youngest Holmes sighed and decided to play his last and fail-proof move. Sherlock stretched out his arms casually, as if he was tired, then suddenly gave a cry of surprise as he began to fall backwards off the bed. The effect was instantaneous; Mycroft shot up, catching Sherlock and pulling him back up. "Careful!" Mycroft exclaimed as Sherlock began to giggle._

"_Now you're awake!" he laughed. Mycroft sighed, swinging his legs off the bed and standing up._

"_Yes, I'm fine now." He admitted. "You said dinner was ready."_

"_Yeah, mummy said I could try to get you." Sherlock jumped to his feet as well and dashed to the door, suddenly full of energy. "Coming?"_

"_Mmmhhhmm." Mycroft rubbed the back of his neck. "Thanks Sherlock."_

"_You would have been there for weeks. I'd get bored without you." Sherlock shrugged, and was about to go out of the door when,_

"_Belladonna."_

"_What?" Sherlock turned back. Mycroft followed him out of the door and down the stairs, the familiar spark back in his eyes._

"_She wasn't killed by the dart at all, don't you see? She was a history student, studying the Georgians who were known for using poisons in their make-up. She had been working with her chemistry-studying boyfriend to discover how quickly the belladonna would kill, and when she cheated on him, he got his revenge. It would be easy for him to slip the belladonna into her drink."_

"_So the dart..." Sherlock's eyes widened "was there to frame the one she cheated on him with because he played darts himself!"_

"_Yes." Mycroft nodded. "Well done." He paused, then looked down at Sherlock with a smirk. "I'm still the smart one."_

"Wait, so you were the only one who could get through to him?" John blinked.

"He wouldn't even speak to anyone else." Sherlock shrugged as he got up to go and get dressed, but he suddenly stopped by his door. "By the way," he said in a bored voice "I'd prefer you didn't mention to Mycroft I told you that. I'm planning to get a taxi later on today, and world war three would do the traffic no good at all."


End file.
